


The Welfare of a Child

by Katbelle



Series: learn me hard, learn me right [7]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, As in Valjean breaks someone's nose, Bad Parenting, Character Death Fix, Children, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Minor Violence, Movie/Brick Fusion, They had it coming though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Epiphany 1835 when Valjean made an interesting acquintance and then proceeded to break his nose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Welfare of a Child

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [k-meme prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=8211945#t8211945) ~~I will find one day~~. Dedicated to **dong-valdong** , fandom's Super Fanartist. Thanks for existing.

**The Welfare of a Child**

_The welfare of a child is not to be measured by money only, nor by physical comfort only._

~***~

It was no secret whatsoever that the prefect of Haute-Vienne liked things to be beautiful and breathtaking. Such was his home, an apartment in a tall, sturdy building with its facade in delicate beige - it made it stand out among all the red tiles of the city. Such was his wife Laure - his third wife, it needed to be added, a pretty young thing from Provence, who had a good taste in wine and in men who were not her husband. And such was the building of the prefecture as well, with its walls still decorated with spruce wreaths and colourful ribbons. It was an obvious display of the prefect's wealth and Valjean liked to shake his head at it.

Valjean did not know much about the going-ons of Limoges, especially prior to his settling there. It was quite an ugly city, painted in monotone browns, dirty, stinking and wholly unpredictable. It's past two mayors, the two messieurs de la Bastide, were equally cherished and frowned upon, and yet no one could name a single thing they did for the city. The current mayor - holding his position for a third year now - was a proud royalist and was received warmly, despite the people's supposed republican inclinations. But the prefect, he was something else entirely. He was a proud man, intent on bettering his status not through the gratitude of his people but via the admiration of the burgeois and all other officials. Hence this, this ball, organised barely a week after the New Year's celebrations in the mairie building. There were other things to spend money on, of course - the sisters' hospital, for example, and the police was almost criminally underfunded - but none of this would win Fameuil the approval he was seeking quite the way a feast or a mascarade would.

"Monsieur Valjean! I am relieved to see you have accepted my invitation."

Laure Fameuil appeared by his side almost out of thin air. She smiled warmly and settled her arm under his. It was a well-known fact that Madame Fameuil championed the wealthy Monsieur Valjean, that she was prone to giving him long half-lidded looks when her husband was not looking at her and sometimes even when he was. That Delpont girl often snickered about that while Javert liked to say that Fameuil was ready to suffer through his wife's indiscretions if only that meant not alienating the wealthy new resident with a mysterious past. No one in the town quite knew what it was that Valjean was doing or how he came about is fortune, but it seemed that no one cared much, the prefect least of all.

He only wanted Valjean's friendship to further his own goals; little did he know that he had never had the chance to get it.

"I could not have refused, madame," Valjean said. He could have, of course, was tempted to, even, on accounts of solidarity.

"Nonsense!" laughed Madame Fameuil, waving a hand dismissively. "Monsieur could have done as he pleased. I am grateful, however, for your attendance. My husband's balls are dreadfully _dull_."

That was one thing to call them, certainly. For all the money Fameuil put into organization, the events were almost always boring; there was a dinner and dancing and an orchestra, and yet nothing ever happened, nothing worth noticing or mentioning later. If not for Javert, who once said he needed a spy in during the prefect's various festives, Valjean would be tempted not to bother coming here tonight at all. He would, in the end, he always did, but the prospect was entertaining.

But he did come so he smiled thinly for Madame Fameuil, who fluttered her blackened eyelashes at him and steered him towards a lavishly set dining room, where all the other guests were already in attendance. A year prior — during the very first social gathering that he had attended in Limoges, as he disregarded the Christmas and New Year's Day celebrations — he was seated almost at the opposite end of the table from the hosts. This year Madame Fameuil directed him to a chair on her left, closer to the head of the table but closer to her attentive eye and unwanted advances as well.

"Some wine, monsieur?" she asked sweetly and poured it into a glass even though Valjean shook his head 'no'. He had to make himself refrain from rolling his eyes, then realized he was doing that and laughed to himself, concealing it as a cough. That was a peculiar tick of Javert's that must have begun rubbing off on him. It was difficult not to adopt it, in this city.

Out of the corner of his eye, farther down the table, he noticed the curly head of Hèctor Delpont. The young man had a sour expression and was not trying to hide his displeasure. Valjean tried to catch his gaze and when he did, he bowed his head slightly in a greeting. Hèctor's lips curled in a smile and he nodded back. There. At least one person he could safely talk to. A friend, of sorts.

"Monsieur?"

Valjean blinked. There was a girl — a young woman, rather — standing by him, with a plate in her hand, waiting. Waiting? Waiting for--Of course. The cake. She must have been the youngest of all the guests, tasked with cutting and handling it out.

"Thank you," he said and took the plate. He looked at her when she smiled and bobbed in a graceful curtsey. She could not have been older than fifteen. She had pale skin, a round face with bright eyes and long chestnut brown hair. She smiled prettily albeit sadly. There was something--not exactly familiar, about her, but most certainly--known somehow to him. 

She looked a tad like Cosette — all pale youth and beauty, and almond-shaped eyes — but reminded him of Fantine.

The girl moved away, once more leaving Valjean with Madame Fameuil as a companion. Madame Fameuil smiled seductively and _purred_. Dear Lord, she purred, like a cat which got treated with a bowl of cream.

"You look handsomely in this green vest, monsieur," she commented. "It brings out the colour of your eyes."

Yes, he was aware of that. Cosette had told him so, numerous times. Hèctor's sister as well. Javert--well, Javert never said anything, but he seemed to like the greens. Valjean made sure that they stayed in his clothing.

"Well--yes," he answered. He focused his gaze on the slice of cake and began cutting it, slowly and methodically, precise, focused on the task if only to avoid any conversation. Madame Fameuil waited a beat for him to answer her more eloquently; when it became clear that Valjean was entirely too absorbed with his piece of cake to entertain her, she pouted and turned towards her husband, who was engrossed in a conversation with a man Valjean had never seen before. He was entirely bald and looked twice Fameuil's age. He looked older than Valjean himself.

There was no bean in his slice of cake. Valjean breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God, he was in no danger of having to stay at the Fameuils' longer than absolutely necessary and playing the 'king for the day'. If only this dreadful dinner would end. He would stay perhaps half an hour more, to exchange a few pleasantries with the prefect, to talk with Hèctor, ask about his wife and sister, but not longer. It would be infinitely easier to slip out unnoticed when the company had left the dining room and retired to the drawing rooms, when Madame Fameuil had busied herself with other guests.

As if to spite him, the dinner dragged; if Valjean were one to believe such nonsense, he would say that the time had slowed in its passing. What felt like an hour was merely five minutes. It was a torture. He did understand now, finally, what Cosette had meant when she said she disliked several aspects of her new high society life.

And then it was over. The prefect and his friend stood up, Fameuil invited the men to join him for a drink and a smoke and advised the women to accompany his wife. The dining room soon cleared; Valjean purposefully stayed behind. Soon he would claim fatigue, apologise to the host and go home, _home_ , finally.

"Espionage?" Hèctor Delpont asked as he appeared by Valjean's side with a drink in his hand.

"Pardon?"

"Has Javert asked you to spy on our dear prefect, monsieur?" Hèctor sipped an amber liquid from the small glass he was holding. Cognac, most likely. Not that Valjean would be trying it any time soon. Ever since October, he cringed at the mere thought of drinking. 

"No, he did not," Valjean answered truthfully. Well, not today. He came to this festivity because it was prudent and because he did not think that having the prefect as a friend was unwise, no matter what he personally thought of these gatherings. Not that it meant he would not be pressed for details about the gathering as soon as he steps through the threshold of the house. Javert had once mentioned needing a spy. He and Fameuil... They were civil enough with one another, but there was a deep mutual distrust and borderline disrespect between them. They were most certainly not even on friendly terms. It made Javert's job much harder yet a part of Valjean — a tiny, tiny part that he vehemently disliked — was oddly glad. 

Hèctor laughed, knowing very well that the evening will end with a thorough interrogation. "My sister did," he said. "But you know by now, monsieur, that Clara positively lives off on gossip."

Indeed he knew. Clara Delpont, with her life motto of knowing everything about everyone in the city. If Javert and Fameuil disliked one another but managed to maintain a civil working relationship, the same could be said about Valjean and Clara Delpont. Oh, Hèctor was a wonderful fellow, and his wife and young son were a delight. But Clara--Clara Delpont was, in simple terms, _odd_. Very hotheaded. Very vocal. Very protective. And a brilliant sharpshooter, which not always was a good combination. But she was useful and had proven herself time and again, and Javert valued her companionship, for reasons neither known nor understood by Valjean.

"You won't have much to tell her about," Valjean pointed out. "Nothing has happened so far."

Hèctor laughed. "And nothing will. Nothing ever does."

"Do not say that." Cosette hated such phrases and had always chastised him for using them; she always claimed that saying something never happens or never will happen guarantees it happening. There was no need for anything out of the ordinary to occur tonight. The less incidents, the better, Valjean will simply leave and not trouble himself with this idiocy until next year.

Hèctor blanched and quickly gulped down the rest of his drink. "Oh no, here they come," he murmured and bowed to someone behind Valjean's back. 

Valjean looked over his shoulder and indeed there he was, the prefect, making his way through the crowd towards them, with his mysterious friend trailing just behind him.

Hèctor shook Fameuil's hand. "Monsieur le Préfet, a splendid evening."

"Thank you, doctor," Fameuil flashed a grimace that could hardly be called a smile. "It's a shame your" he hesitated over the word, wincing, " _wife_ could not accompany you."

"She has taken ill," Hèctor forced through gritted teeth. "Thus I will have to return to her side as soon as possible. Still, it was a lovely event."

"I don't doubt it."

Hèctor clasped Valjean's shoulder reassuringly and moved away, making room for Fameuil and his friend. When he disappeared amongst the other guests, Fameuil and the other man exchanged amused looks and the man laughed.

"Is he the one married to a Negro?" he asked.

Fameuil nodded. "And she is a rather ugly thing. She comes from money, however, so perhaps that's why he married her."

Valjean coughed discreetly to draw attention. It worked; the two men stopped chuckling, Fameuil then hit himself on the forehead.

"How inappropriate of me," he said, "not to make introductions when you messiers do not know each other." That was not why Valjean interrupted them, but he would take this change of subject. "My friend, this is Monsieur Valjean, the gracious businessman I have written you about. Monsieur Valjean, this is one of my best and oldest friends, Félix Tholomyès."

"Pleasure," Valjean murmured as he squeezed Tholomyès' hand. The man had a strong grip for someone of his posture.

"You bought the old Telbon manufacture, did you not?" Tholomyès asked.

"Yes." That was the reason he first came to this city, but it was not the reason he stayed. "My daughter and I did."

"A daughter!" Tholomyès exclaimed.

"A baroness," Fameuil cut in. "Monsieur Valjean is the father of baroness Euphrasie Pontmercy. The whole of Paris is proud to have her."

Tholomyès whistled appreciatively. "A baroness," he said. "It is good, it is heartwarming to know that not every daughter is as depraved as my Adèle. It is a shame to even take her anywhere, but my dear Fameuil," Tholomyès nodded at his friend, who smiled and shrugged, "is her godfather and he always insists."

The girl at the table. The girl with the cake, he was talking about the girl with the cake. She was Tholomyès' daughter. Valjean cocked his head to the side. Disregarding his lack of hair and much, much rounder frame, there were indeed some similarities between the girl and Tholomyès. She had his nose and the shape of his eyes. She gave the impression of a person thoroughly sad and resigned. She did not seem--depraved.

"I have seen her tonight," Valjean said. "She appeared very--respectable."

Tholomyès snorted. "She willingly spread her legs for a stable boy and saddled herself with a child, that ungrateful wench. She is anything but respectable."

While saying that, Tholomyès looked square at Valjean, with a chin raised, as if challenging him to a hurtful, vile comment. Valjean could not say anything, not in a good conscience. It was enough that her own father treated her such. God. The girl had a child, and at such a young age. And she was so sad, good Lord. Perhaps that was why she reminded him of Fantine.

When Valjean said nothing, Tholomyès sighed and shook his head. "What a shame. Sometimes it feels as if the Lord is punishing me, but for what, I cannot conceive!"

"Oh, I could name a few things," Fameuil said with a devilish smile. "Remember that grisette in Paris? The one who bore you a bastard child?"

"I do," Tholomyès answered with a smile of his own. "She had pearls in her mouth, not teeth! What was her name, again? Zephine?"

Valjean frowned. The man called his own daughter a wench for having an illegitimate child and yet he secured the same fate to a woman whose name he could not even remember? He clenched his fists. That was the sort of hypocrisy that he could not condone. 

"No, Zephine was accompanying me," Fameuil laughed. "I had met her during my last trip to Paris, in fact. She became an opera singer and married some duke."

"Good for her!" Tholomyès clapped. "I sometimes wonder what happened to that grisette. Or to that daughter of hers."

A daughter. Tholomyès had a daughter he cared nothing for. Valjean's thoughts flew immediately to Cosette — and to her little Madeleine — and he silently thanked Heavens that both those ladies so close to his heart were spared the pain of having such a father. He himself was far from perfect but he, quite selfishly, thought he did good. And Marius, Marius will be a wonderful father to Madeleine.

Fameuil snorted. "And what could, with such a mother?"

"Low birth does not indicate the path one will take," Valjean observed.

Tholomyès looked at him pityingly. "Perhaps not. The grisette did know how to find an opportunity for herself, after all. She no doubt found a new man to prey on. And the little girl _was_ pretty, even at that age. What was her name?" He clasped Fameuil's arm. "Fameuil, what was that bastard's name?" 

"Was it not Émilie?"

"And not Emma? Something starting with an 'e' in any case." Tholomyès shook his head. "It matters little, I suppose."

That was unconceivable and outrageous, to even contemplate how careless Tholomyès' words were. He was a wholly unlikable man. Valjean rarely heard any good words spoken about Fameuil and he did not think highly of the prefect, but he could not comprehend how such an otherwise _good_ man could be friend with a man like Tholomyès.

"Fantine," Fameuil suddenly said and Valjean froze.

"Fantine," repeated Tholomyès. "Yes, the grisette was called Fantine. The most beautiful in the company. She had twice Zephine's brains, no doubt she married well too. Perhaps she married into royalty!" He looked at Valjean once more, snickered and then winked, as if he were telling a joke. "Or perhaps she married a baron." 

Valjean felt his nails bite into the skin of his palms, he was clenching his fists that hard against saying or doing something unwise. Coincidences happened all the time, his whole life was one big coincidence, especially when one thought about him and Javert. It was possible that they were not talking about the dear Fantine that he knew.

Fameuil chuckled and hit his friend on the back. "And she had such a silly nickname for the child, did she not, Félix?"

Tholomyès grinned. "Oh, she did. 'Cosette'. What sort of a name is that? Who in their right mind calls their child 'Cosette'?"

And all Valjean saw was red.

~***~

Hèctor was bending and straightening Valjean's fingers when Javert strode into the room, unbuttoned greatcoat billowing behind him. The man cast a glance around the room — the few remaining guests huddled together and talked in hushed voices, glaring at Valjean angrily — and then made his way to where Valjean was sitting on a hurriedly drawn up chair and Hèctor was kneeling in front of him.

"What happened? Javert asked, neither Valjean nor Hèctor in particular.

"Just bruised knuckles," Hèctor immediately replied, letting go of Valjean's hand. "The same cannot be said about the other man."

"What _happened_?" Javert repeated the question.

Valjean closed his eyes and experimentally clenched his fist. It hurt a bit, but the grim satisfaction outweighed it. "I accidentally landed my fist on someone's face."

"Accidentally."

"Yes."

"He broke Monsieur Tholomyès' nose," Hèctor said. "I was able to already set it and there will be no lasting damage."

Javert nodded. "Is this Tholomyès very angry?"

"He was some ten minutes ago," Hèctor admitted which was true enough. Tholomyès was fuming and shouting through all that blood that poured down his face. Valjean smiled. He somehow enjoyed that scene. "Thankfully Monsieur Jean is favoured greatly by Madame Fameuil who has already gone to work her charms on Tholomyès and get him to resign from pressing charges."

"Finally that woman proves useful," Javert murmured. He inclined his head slightly, to which Hèctor stood up.

"I'll leave you," he said. He shook Javert's hand, then leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Javert frowned and they both looked at Valjean. "Actually, Monsieur Jean," Hèctor added, "on behalf of everyone who had ever had to suffer through Fameuil's atrocious dinners, _thank you_ for finally making something entertaining happen."

He nodded at Javert and strode towards the door. When he disappeared, Javert sighed, rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest; he looked at Valjean and tapped his foot impatiently. Valjean felt he was being chastised silently.

"Why did you _accidentally_ break someone's nose?"

Valjean rubbed the back of his neck. "The man — Tholomyès — was--very--disrespectful of his daughter." Both of his daughters, in fact. And of Fantine, but he did not say that. Fantine was a topic he wished not to breach, not again.

"Why do you care about a stranger's child! It is not like it concerns you!"

"It does concern me," Valjean barked. He was still angry. But perhaps now it was less on Cosette's behalf and more on his own. The matter of Cosette's biological father was the one mystery that remained unsolved, that is — until now. He never knew who it was, Fantine never left any note, never said. Thus he could safely say that he was the girl's father as there was never anyone else. And not there was, and his claim on Cosette was pitiful at best.

"How, pray tell."

"Do you know who that man is?" Valjean asked. Javert shook his head 'no'. To him, it was simply another of the prefect's idiot friends. "That man is Cosette's father."

That information took Javert by surprise. He gaped, slightly, before asking, "What?"

"He is Cosette's father," Valjean repeated. "He was Fantine's lover and he is Cosette's father, and he is a most despicable person. He insulted Fantine's memory and he insulted Cosette, and thus, by implication, Madeleine." That got Javert riled up. He cared little for Cosette, but he adored Madeleine. He adored her the way he knew how, quietly and from a distance. "He spoke so carelessly about them, Javert! If it weren't for him and his treachery, Cosette might still have a mother and--"

He stopped. And so many things would not have happened, and they would not be here, not like this. 

"And it angered you," Javert finished quietly, completely misinterpreting the pause in Valjean's speech. Valjean nodded anyway. "He is not Cosette's father."

Valjean frowned. "What?"

"He is not Cosette's father," Javert repeated, more quietly. "You are. You raised her. You took care of her and loved her, you even adopted her. He was just--Fantine's--lover. Sharing blood does not make one a father."

Valjean took a moment to realize that Javert was not denying anything but was merely stating an altogether different kind of truth. Slowly a grin formed on his face.

"No, it does not," he admitted, suddenly gleeful.

The door to the room creaked open and two women walked in: Madame Fameuil, who welcomed Javert with a long, loathsome look, and young Adèle Tholomyès, who carried a plate of cake and a cup of what smelled strongly of coffee. The girl stopped by the door with her eyes downcast.

"Monsieur Valjean!" cried Madame Fameuil as she rushed to Valjean's side where she fell to her knees and cradled his bruised hand. Valjean tried to snatch it from her grip but the woman held on stubbornly. "Has it been treated properly?"

"Doctor Delpont looked at it," Valjean said.

Madame Fameuil let out an exasperated sigh. " _Properly_ , I said. I would not trust that--"

"Madame," Javert interrupted her rudely. "Doctor Delpont has already attended to Monsieur Valjean's," the corners of his mouth twitched in a well-repressed smile, "injuries. Is there anything that you wanted besides ensuring _that_?"

Madame Fameuil pouted. "Monsieur Tholomyès has decided to rescind the charges," she said, looking offended at being dismissed so easily.

"Splendid," said Javert dryly.

Madame Fameuil huffed, turned on her heel and stormed off with her blond head held high, muttering about rude ingrates. Only when she was gone had young Adèle moved from her spot. She walked cautiously over to where Javert was standing.

"Monsieur," she said and bowed, and held the plate out for Javert to take. 

Javert blinked, surprised. " _Merci_ ," he murmured. Adèle smiled sweetly.

She then moved to Valjean. She handed him the cup — it was indeed full of freshly brewed coffee — and waited for him to take a sip. Once he did, she put a strand of hair behind her ear, bent and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?" he asked.

She straightened, with face red as a beetroot. She did not say a word, only smiled and walked away. Javert's eyes trailed behind her.

"Who was that?"

"Cosette's sister," Valjean replied, smiling.

"Cosette is prettier," Javert decided and took a bite of the cake. He sputtered and coughed and put a hand to his mouth. He put it down and showed it to Valjean; there, on his outstretched palm, lied a single bean. Javert looked at it, then at Valjean."... Huh." He grinned. "How about that?"

**Author's Note:**

> I completely forgot about the convenient info-dump! How silly of me!  
> \- the cake is, of course, the _galette des rois_ ; traditionally it's served on January 6th and it has a hidden trinket or a bean in it. Whoever finds the trinket/bean becomes the king/queen for the day. In some cases that includes having special privileges and obligations for the next 24h (also it obliges a person to provide the next cake)  
> \- I actually chose Limoges for the setting of this series way before I started writing this story; when I tried to reasonably explain why Valjean and Tholomyès would completely accidentally run into each other, I read up again the parts on Tholomyès in the Brick. Imagine my astonishment when one of his friends happened to come from the exact city I've chosen months ago! It was clearly a sign.  
> \- Fameuil, as a fictional character, was never the prefect of Haute-Vienne. I'd like to apologise to history - and to whoever was the prefect at the time described - for completely ignoring it.  
> \- what we know of Tholomyès from drafts of Les Mis is that he went back to Toulouse and got married and became a respected citizen. Adèle is my invention. ~~She embodies the concept of karma, which is trying to kick Tholomyès' ass for being a douchecanoe.~~ I've been called out on bs reasoning, which probably comes from my using mental shortcuts. I believe that, in the name of literary symmetry, Tholomyès had to become a father to a Fantine. Two sides of the same situation: once he's the douche, once he's the person who wants to rip the douche. Perhaps karma is a bad word here; let's say dramatic irony. Or poetic justice. And yes, I'm aware of Adèle becoming a victim to my need for symmetrical narrations. I am sorry for that and one day might make up for to her.  
>  \- I realize that the name Hector in French spelling has no accent. The version I chose, however, uses the Catalan spelling which does have an accent. Hèctor (well, his father, actually, but that's a story for another time) is of Catalan origin. Same with Clara - it's a Catalan (as well as Spanish) version of the French Claire.


End file.
